


Secrets are Mine to Keep

by nutmeag83



Series: Tattoo My Name On Your Heart [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mentions of past drug use, Mutual Pining, No Smut, OOC Sherlock Holmes, Tattoo Artist Sherlock, Tattoos, Two Pining Idiots, but only vaguely, he starts off softer than he does in the show, mary morstan is a minor character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-19 21:16:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18978502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutmeag83/pseuds/nutmeag83
Summary: John gives in to his girlfriend's wheedling to get a tattoo. Sherlock is a tattoo artist who can read what kind of tattoo a person should have. When Sherlock refuses to give John the tattoo he asks for, John is forced to think about who he really is. And Sherlock has to learn to let another person into his life and his heart.





	1. Born to Lose

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo this was supposed to be a fun little one-shot about John wanting a tattoo and Sherlock being a picky tattoo artist who deduced what tattoos people wanted (do y’all remember the diner chef from the early seasons of _Bones_? Kind of like that). Then all of a sudden, Sherlock was wanting a perfect tattoo for John but couldn’t deduce him, and that turned out to be because John didn’t know himself, and then the one-shot turned into this. Oops?
> 
> They’re more than a little OOC here, given the circumstances. Sherlock, especially, has developed differently. His job requires that he not only read a person’s history but understand who they are. So, OOC goggles on please.
> 
> Also, just a warning that I’m not visually minded at all, so my description of the tattoos will be very vague. I apologize and wish I could provide more. Alas, I cannot.
> 
> I also apologize for this not being beta’ed or Brit-picked. Inspiration waits for no editing!
> 
> This is not a WIP. I’ve only got to put together the last bit of the final chapter and do some editing. Not sure how quickly I’ll get each chapter up, but it won’t be a long wait, I promise!
> 
> Title comes from the song “The Weight of Us” by Sanders Bohlke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by [“Born to Lose”](https://youtu.be/Nck4hMbszn0) by Jenny Owen Youngs. 
> 
>  
> 
> _You've got two bad eyes, you got ‘em from your parents_   
>  _And one bad leg, you got it from the war_   
>  _Three mistakes in bottles on a shelf, yes_   
>  _You can't wait to go and make some more_   
>  _So go and make some more_   
>  _Somewhere in the night, a man is standing by_   
>  _With a deal you won't be able to refuse_   
>  _No, you can't call him, but expect your phone to ring_   
>  _And brother, you prepare yourself to_   
>  _Offer up what you were born to lose_
> 
>  
> 
> So very John and Sherlock, amiright?

“I’d like a tattoo of this, please.” John slid across the counter the picture he’d printed out earlier. The man sitting on a stool behind the counter didn’t look up from what he was drawing.

“No, you don’t.”

John stared at the man with a frown. One, what did the man know about what John wanted? Two, he hadn’t even glanced at the picture.

“Um, yeah, I do.”

“Nope.” He popped the P extra loud as he said it.

“Excuse me,” John replied, feeling his blood pressure go up ever so slightly. “I think I know what I want. Also, you didn’t even look at it.”

The man sighed, dropped his pen and sketchpad on top of the printout, and looked up. Piercing, light eyes met John’s. “I’m sure it’s something boring like your army unit or the rod of Asclepius, or maybe your girlfriend’s name, if you’re a complete idiot.” His eyes ran up and down John and raised an eyebrow as if to ask, ‘ _Are_ you an idiot?’

“How did you …?” John furrowed his brow. It wasn’t any of those things, but how did the man know those were even possibilities? Mike had said his tattoo artist was discerning about his clients and the things he was willing to tattoo on them, but he’d failed to mention his ability to read a person’s history in one glance. It was kind of creepy. _And interesting_. John swatted away that inner voice that had perked up for the first time since he’d returned to London two months before. Well, that wasn’t precisely true. When Mary had mentioned how sexy tattoos were a few weeks back, the voice had sat up in interest, but it hadn’t said anything until now. Given that the voice was the reason he’d been shot, he really should ignore it.

“I won’t tattoo stupidity on a person, nor anything you printed from the _internet_.” The man’s voice was scathing, as was his scowl. “My tattoos are works of art. I take pride in them.”

John crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “What _will_ you tattoo, then?”

The man—what had Mike said his name was? Something odd that started with an Sh-, like Sherrinford or Sheldon—tilted his head for a moment. “Something not stupid.”

“Thanks for clarifying,” John spit out sarcastically. He turned on his heel to leave. “I’ll just take my patronage elsewhere, I reckon.”

“No, you won’t,” the man murmured just loud enough for John to hear.

John turned back around, unable to let the man have the last word. “What makes you say that?”

“You like my art.”

It was true. From the moment he’d seen Mike’s ink when they’d run into each other in the park—Mary’s admiration over tattoos already on his mind—he’d been intrigued. It was intricate, beautifully rendered, the colors precise and lifelike. Seeing further art on the wall of the shop had kept him walking to the counter when he’d first arrived, despite already second-guessing his decision. He was thirty-four for God’s sake. What was he doing thinking of getting his first tattoo at that age? But the beauty of the tattoos had spurred him on. Still, he fought the man’s pronouncement.

“So? Lots of tattoo artists have beautiful art. What makes yours better?”

“I’ll give you what you want,” the man said, causing an electric thrill to shoot down John’s spine. He ignored it.

“Oh?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even. “And what’s that?”

“A tattoo you’ll never regret, that you’ll always be proud to have. One that means something to you, rather than one that will impress your _girlfriend_.” The tone turned mocking with the last word.

John’s heartrate settled back into its normal rhythm, and he tried not to think of the reason it had gone up in the first place. “Have something in mind?”

The man narrowed his eyes. “Not … yet …” He looked severely put out by this thought. “Come back when you know yourself a little better.”

John frowned. What the hell did that mean? “Right.”

He wouldn’t be back. This place, this man, was strange. It was disconcerting.

***

His return to Mary’s flat sans tattoo had turned her eager grin into a frown of confusion, and he’d had a hard time explaining why he hadn’t just gone to another artist. Someone who was less of an arsehole and would create what he asked for. _What **Mary** asked for_, the annoying voice chimed in. He’d settled for explaining that the man had a good point. A tattoo was forever and needed to be thought through. Mary clearly hadn’t understood (not like she had one, so she couldn’t know the full weight of it), but she’d eventually shrugged and given him a small smile.

“When you’re ready, then,” she’d said, and that had been that. For Mary at least.

But the man’s words wouldn’t leave John alone, popping up when he had his morning coffee, his lunch, his afternoon walks. They made him itch for reasons he couldn’t understand, and the less remembered about the man’s low, velvety voice, the better. Finally, he decided he had to go back, just to ask why the man seemed to know so much about him.

Two weeks after his first visit, he returned to The Science of Tattoos. He had legitimately set out for just a walk, but before he knew it, he was standing on the pavement outside the shop, staring at the art in the windows as if it would tell him what had led him there. The art said nothing, so he took a breath and pushed his way through the door.

The was an older woman behind the counter this time, and she glanced up at him with a smile. “Welcome to The Science of Tattoos,” she said warmly. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh, um.” John was thrown to not see the same infuriating man as before. He couldn’t exactly ask his questions to some unknown front desk person. “I …”

Before he could come up with a reason for standing dumbly in the shop, the voice John couldn’t, for the life of him, excise from his brain floated from around a screen that partitioned the front area from where the tattoo artist apparently worked.

“Mrs. Hudson! I spilled ink!”

“Then clean it up, dear,” she called back with a sigh. “I’m not your housekeeper!”

The man’s dark, curly head popped around the edge of the screen, followed by the rest of him. He frowned at her. “Yes, you are.”

“No,” she replied patiently. “I’m your administrative assistant and landlady.” She patted him on the cheek before sliding off her stool and heading for the front door. “It’s time for my break. Clean it up yourself, Sherlock.” She exited before he could reply.

The man—ah yes, Sherlock. He knew it started with an Sh—sighed, then he must have realized he wasn’t alone, because his gaze whipped to John. He straightened his clothes—black button-down shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows (tattoos peeking out around the shirt edges) and black jeans—almost self-consciously, then smirked.

“Took you long enough. Figure it out yet?”

“I’m not here to get a tattoo,” John replied firmly.

Sherlock frowned, his eyes darting over John’s frame. John tried to stand as straight as possible despite being forced to lean on a cane.

“Hmmm, no, you’re not.”

Shrugging off self-consciousness from being studied so closely, John tried for a smile that ended up as more of a grimace.

“Well?” Sherlock asked, eyebrow raised in question.

“Right. Um … How did you know? About me, I mean. My background.”

“I didn’t know. I saw.”

John tried to parse that, but it didn’t make sense. “What?”

“Simple. You were wearing a worn t-shit from St. Bart’s, and you stapled Mike Stamford’s card to your printout—he’d written my address on it for you. So, you probably studied at Bart’s with Stamford, therefore, a doctor. Your tan and limp suggest you’ve recently returned from war, and the RAMC is the only branch that lets its doctors into combat zones. Army doctor is looking more likely. So, military or medical tattoo.”

John’s brain whirled with the deductions, but he noticed one thing that had been left out. “Wait, you mentioned a girlfriend too.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Shot in the dark, but a good one. You’ve just returned from combat and yet you weren’t sold on a tattoo like most military men I see are. So, likely a girlfriend talked you into it. Not a wife, or you’d have got one before now. Someone you wanted to impress then. Long-term girlfriend who you’re considering proposing to. I’d advise against getting the tattoo for her, or proposing for that matter. You’re trying to be what she wants you to be, never a good sign for a relationship.”

John bristled at the unwarranted advice and the commentary on his romantic life. Still, he couldn’t help being impressed that Sherlock had got so much else right. “Amazing,” slipped past his lips before he could stop it. He mentally face-palmed.

Sherlock’s eyes widened before his face settled back into the bored mask of indifference it had warn during his explanation. “That’s not what people normally say.”

He had a good idea but had to ask all the same. “What do they normally say?”

With a smirk, Sherlock replied, “Piss off.”

John chuckled. “Well, it’s brilliant anyway.”

Sherlock looked away and back again, smiling almost shyly. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

John’s heart clenched at the thought that this genius wasn’t praised more regularly. He was a bit of an arsehole, but he was still amazing. He found himself wanting to know more.

“So, this is what you do then? Deduce what tattoos people want by reading their history?”

“Mostly, yes. I consult with the Metropolitan Police sometimes.”

“Oh. Why would the Met need to consult a tattoo artist?”

“I recognize all the major tattoo artists’ styles in London. When they have a body that needs identifying and there’s a tattoo, they come to me.”

“Impressive.”

Sherlock frowned and tilted his head. “Do you really think so?”

John shrugged. “Well. Bit like an art historian, right? Identifying certain styles. And working for the Met is definitely impressive.”

“Oh.” Sherlock straightened. “Right.” He looked around the counter, finally picking up a book he found under one of the shelves. “Here.”

“What’s this?” John took the book.

“My portfolio. I won’t copy something you got from somewhere else, and I won’t re-use my old art, but this will show you my style and give you ideas for what you want.”

“What?” Why did it seem like he’d spent half his time around this man asking that question? He wasn’t usually so slow on the uptake. He opened to a random page in the book. The photo showed a full sleeve done in black and grays, abstract but beautiful. “I thought you said I shouldn’t get a tattoo,” he added distractedly, studying the photo. Like Mike’s tattoo, the lines were clear and precise, and somehow there was a suggestion of movement, despite the static nature of tattoos. Like … wind, maybe? His eyes followed the flowing lines. It was gorgeous.

“I said you shouldn’t get one to impress a girlfriend. Or get art suggested by her. Boring. Idiotic. You do want one, though.”

The certainty in Sherlock’s voice pulled him away from the next page he’d flipped to. “Why do you say that?”

“You’re bored, you need a change, and you need to know who you are.”

“And a tattoo can do that?”

“Mine can.” Sherlock smirked.

Before he could reply, John’s phone beeped his text alert. He dug the phone out of his pocket. Mary needed cleaning supplies. He sighed. It was a long walk back to the flat, and she hated to wait.

“Thanks. I’ll … think about it,” he said, sliding the book back on the counter.

“You do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally made up the part about the RAMC being the only branch that allowed doctors into combat zones. 
> 
> This story is partially inspired by my own love of tattoos, but also by Indybaggins’ _[Masters of Ink](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13514946/chapters/30998382)_. My story shares very little with _Masters of Ink_ , but reading it definitely made me want to read more tattoo!lock, which there is very little of. What little I know about the tattoo process is based on this story and what I learned while researching my latest tattoo. So thank you, Indybaggins, for the inspiration!


	2. I've Got to See You Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John keeps coming back to the shop. Sherlock wonders why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [“I’ve Got to See You Again”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=el9cknEVlc0) by Nora Jones.

Sherlock had been a little stunned when he’d looked up to find the army doctor who had first come by a few weeks back asking for some boring tattoo or another (he’d binned the paper without looking at it) standing in the lobby of his shop.

He’d been intrigued by the man’s contradictions. Though staunch and loyal, he was wavering on proposing to his girlfriend. Though staid in an oatmeal jumper, he did actually want a tattoo. Though a doctor, he had gone to war and held a gun. Though polite, he had backbone. And most exciting, despite whatever dime-a-dozen tattoo he’d chosen to please his girlfriend, he was taken by Sherlock’s own art. It was enough for Sherlock to give him a second glance, but despite his seemingly confident parting words at the end of the man’s first visit, Sherlock hadn’t really expected him to return. The man was trying so hard to be _normal_ , other than trying to impress a woman with a tattoo, that it would’ve been no surprise if he’d never come back.

But he had returned. No longer angry, he was instead curious. Not just about tattoos, but about Sherlock—his deductions, his process. Even unasked-for advice hadn’t scared him away or annoyed him. Instead, he’d called Sherlock _brilliant_ and _amazing_ , which, he had to admit, went to his head a little. He had some very loyal customers, but they were few. Most who came in were immediately turned off by his acerbity or rude words and walked out again without the tattoo they’d (idiotically) asked for. Anyone who stayed was in it solely for the art, able to withstand Sherlock’s personality only for the tattoo they got out of it. But this man, he’d come back for _Sherlock_. The art played a part, but it wasn’t the main reason. He wanted to know more. It made Sherlock smile a little, thinking back to their conversation. Then he remembered the text that had taken the man away again, before he could learn enough to create the perfect tattoo for the man. Girlfriends. He rolled his eyes. Boring.

He ignored the little voice asking him why, after two decently long visits, he still couldn’t deduce the tattoo the man needed. Most people he had pegged in minutes. At most, half an hour, but usually that was only when the customer was being recalcitrant and not listening to his suggestions. This man, though … Sherlock couldn’t even get a read on him.

He tried not to get too hopeful that the man would return a third time. He’d been impressed with Sherlock, but now that his curiosity had been satisfied, his questions answered, he had no need to return. Not when he didn’t know himself well enough yet to be sure about a tattoo. It was unfortunate, there were so many intriguing possibilities, so much untouched skin. He itched to ink it, put his mark on it.

No. Why had he thought that? Well, he _was_ a tattoo artist. Of course he wanted to ink skin. It was why he did what he did. He could have become a detective or a chemical engineer or whatever he’d wanted to be, given his brains and family connections. But he’d opened a tattoo shop on his own, with no one to tell him what to do or where to be. Just skin and art. He directed his thoughts elsewhere, not wanting to question why he wanted to touch the man’s skin so badly.

***

Sherlock entered his shop one afternoon a few weeks later to find the man back yet again, calmly looking through his portfolio. He was chatting with Mrs. Hudson, who guarded the front desk when Sherlock wasn’t around. They were laughing, and Mrs. Hudson looked far too comfortable with this unknown man who didn’t even have the decency to reveal his secrets to Sherlock.

“If you’re going to keep coming back, I might as well get a name.”

The man turned his head to where Sherlock stood at the entrance and smiled. He _smiled._ At _Sherlock_. And it appeared to be genuine.

“Oh, hello. Yeah, I reckon we haven’t formally introduced ourselves yet. John Watson.” The man—John, a name that hid his intriguing bits beneath an unassuming cover—stuck out his hand, which Sherlock took tentatively, ignoring Mrs. Hudson’s look of shock at the unusual-for-him gesture.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said in return, letting the warmth of John’s hand linger in his chilly one briefly before pulling back. “Still considering tattoos, I see.” He came around the counter to stand by Mrs. Hudson, who gave him a comforting caress on his arm.

“I was showing him some of my favorites,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“They’re lovely. Amazing. How long have you been tattooing?” John kept the full intensity of his gaze on Sherlock, who tried not to shiver.

“Three years professionally. Did some apprenticing before that, obviously.”

“Art school?” John asked. He seemed genuinely curious. How did this seemingly ordinary man keep throwing him for a loop with his simple questions?

“Uh, no. Graduate chemist, actually.”

John’s eyebrows rose. He had such an expressive face. Sherlock loved it. “Impressive. Quite a change from that to tattooing though, right?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I like having options.”

Before the conversation could go further, the shop door opened, revealing his next appointment.

He nodded to the screen to signal for her to head back. Not that he was ever particularly genial to his customers, but Mia was a repeat client, and so he felt less of a need to deal with ridiculous manners. “I’ll be right with you.”

Mia nodded in return and headed behind the screen.

“Sorry, I’ve got to …” he pointed toward the screen, truly disappointed he couldn’t talk further with John. “Stay as long as you like. Mrs. Hudson? Some tea, if you don’t mind.”

“Not your housekeeper,” she sang, making notations in the client calendar.

John giggled—actually giggled—and pointed a thumb behind him. “Actually, I promised to get Mrs. Hudson a coffee from across the street. Can I get you anything while I’m out?”

“Oh.” Sherlock paused, not used to having people offer to do things for him. “Um, no thank you. Never eat or drink while I work.”

John shrugged. “Okay. Be back in a bit then, Mrs. H.”

After the door swung shut, Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat, startling Sherlock with the realization that he’d been staring for far too long at John’s exit.

“So. It’s John Watson that does it for you, then?” Her face looked far too innocent.

Sherlock growled at being caught out. “Shut up, Mrs. Hudson.”

***

He finally began to believe that John actually wanted to be there when he showed up a fourth and then a fifth time, a week between each visit. He asked questions about Sherlock’s process, the art he’d created, why he’d become a tattoo artist. They were questions someone who was genuinely interested in a person—as a _friend_ , he told himself—would ask. Sherlock suspected he also came to get out of the flat he shared with his girlfriend. He knew a doomed relationship when he saw one, and he suspected John did too, but the man was too stubborn for his own good sometimes.

Stubborn and without the self-assurance that he, as an army doctor, should have had. If he wasn’t already in a committed relationship (met just before he last deployed, then stayed with her out of gratefulness for sticking with him through war), he’d probably be a serial dater, basing his self-worth on having a partner and a good job. Unhappy with the former and without the latter, his self-esteem was not what it should be.

All this made it difficult to pin down what sort of tattoo Sherlock should create for him. He’d never had this hard of a time before. And perhaps if he’d been able to keep his feelings out of their acquaintanceship, Sherlock would have cared less and could have created something that, while beautiful and perfectly executed, might not completely represent the complicated man he was slowly coming to know. But he was finding that sentiment (hateful) was making him more of a perfectionist than usual. He wanted John’s art to perfectly encapsulate what and who he was.

_And maybe_ , a small voice said, _you’re dragging it out so he’ll keep coming back_. Well, yes, he told himself. John’s questions were having a satisfying effect on the rest of Sherlock’s art. His tattoos had never been better, his ideas transferring almost perfectly to skin. He was even getting more customers thanks to John posting some of his newer tattoos on the blog his therapist was making him keep. He’d even written up a few of the cases Sherlock had been asked by the Met to help with, bringing new cases from other detectives in the city.

By John’s seventh visit, he was helping out around the shop in between flipping through Sherlock’s portfolio and discussing tattoo ideas. He would come in before the shop opened and do any setting up Sherlock needed help with before his first customer or just chat if there was no one scheduled. He had set up a tea table and somehow wheedled Mrs. Hudson into bringing baked goods in. Apparently grateful to have some of the workload off her shoulders, it seemed she’d do anything for John. Sherlock understood how she felt, though he wasn’t sure it was gratefulness spurring his own need to please. He chose not to think about it.

“How about this?” John asked during his eighth visit, holding up a photo with a geometric design on a man’s calf.

Sherlock scrunched up his nose, then scowled back down at the sketch of a dragon he was working on for a customer. “Too rigid for you.”

John chuckled. “I was in the army, you know. Pretty rigid there.”

“You didn’t join to be told what to do. You needed any adrenalin rush while helping people.”

John stared for long enough to make Sherlock fight a fidget. “Oh. Right.” He lowered his gaze to the book again and said no more for a while.

Sherlock was getting back into the rhythm of sketching when he heard a throat being cleared.

“I let you tell me what to do,” John said quietly.

“You asked what you could do to help out since you started coming in regularly without getting a tattoo,” Sherlock defended, not looking up from his pad.

“That’s not what I– No, I meant … I’m letting you shoot down every idea I have about a tattoo, aren’t I?”

“Because they’re bad ideas, and I know more about art than you do.”

“Sherlock, it’ll be created by you. Whatever I get will be gorgeous.” John sounded incredulous. “I’d get a thousand comments on anything you put on me.”

“It needs to be perfect.” He pushed too hard on his pen, ripping the paper beneath it.

“I don’t get it.”

“You don’t ‘get’ many things, John.” He moved to another part of the dragon. This was just a prelim sketch. It didn’t need to be perfect.

“Shut up, you cock. I mean … So many people come in, you read them, and come up with a tattoo idea on the spot; or maybe you require a second session if the person is being extra difficult. But we’ve been at this for over a month now, and you’ve still yet to even come up with an _idea_ of an idea.”

Sherlock rolled his shoulders, trying to get rid of the tension in them from hunching over his pad for too long. “It’s not my fault you don’t know what you want.”

“But you keep shooting down my ideas!”

“I can easily see what you _don’t_ want. Discovering what you _do_ want requires your own ability to know yourself. I need to have a foundation to read. You haven’t settled on that yet.”

John threw out his arms and sighed. “I’m thirty-four. I’ve had a career, a life. I think I know who I am.”

Sherlock looked into John’s dark (beautiful, intriguing) eyes. “Who are you, John Watson?”

With a scratch of his neck, John shrugged. “I’m just … me. A doctor, army doctor even. I like long baths with candles, spy movies, and Thai food. I have an alcoholic sister, a nurse girlfriend, and an arsehole friend who won’t settle on a tattoo for me.”

Sherlock froze at the words. He gripped his pen and refused to look up. “I’m you’re … friend?” He hated how small his voice sounded.

“God, Sherlock.” John’s voice sounded just as small. “Of course you’re my friend. I spend all my free time here. I make sure you eat. I keep you from scaring away customers. Yeah, you’re my friend. Probably the person who knows me best here in London, despite your saying otherwise.”

Sherlock pushed away the happiness. If he let himself think about it, he’d be useless the rest of the day. He kept a single bit of warmth burning in his chest and let the rest of himself get back on track. “But I can only know what you know. And you still don’t know what you want.”

“I want–” John cut himself off with a choked breath. “I have to go …”

Still trying to keep his own emotions in check, the words didn’t quite penetrate until the door rang, signaling John’s exit. He looked up. “John?” But the man was already out the door, leaving only his cane behind.

***

Despite the abrupt departure, John came back only a couple of days later with two suitcases and a laptop case, still sans his cane, which Sherlock had shoved into a storage cupboard.

He couldn’t believe it. Mary had been angling hard for a ring, despite their less-than-happy relationship since John’s return from war. She’d wanted a badass war hero but instead got a human being affected by the horrors he’d experienced. She could be just as stubborn as John sometimes. And completely unaware of what an amazing man she was lucky to have.

“Can I borrow your sofa for a few days?” John asked, fidgeting with a strap and looking at the floor rather than at Sherlock.

“She left you?”

“Actually? Umm, I left her?”

Sherlock tried not to hope.


	3. Time Has Come and Let Us be Brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John moves into 221B and finally starts understanding who he is. Progress is made on tattoo ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you've noticed, my Mary is somewhat different than the one in the show. But I think show!Mary could've been this, if she and John had met under different circumstances and she'd had different expectations.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to the song [“The Weight of Us”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OZiDlT94vp4) by Sanders Bohike, which came on my playlist just as I was writing the bit where John gets real introspective. The lyrics seemed especially relevant at the time. 
> 
>  
> 
> _There's a cold heart, buried beneath,_  
>  _and warm blood, running deep_  
>  _Secrets - are mine to keep_  
>  _protected by silent sleep_  
>  _I'm not ready_  
>  _for the weight of us_  
>  _…_  
>  _Time has come and let us be brave._
> 
>  
> 
> Right? I played this on repeat after it first came on.

“There’s a room upstairs, if you’ll be needing separate rooms,” Mrs. Hudson—apparently Sherlock’s landlady as well as assistant—had said when Sherlock had let her know John would be moving in. He wasn’t even sure how he’d gone from asking to sleep on the sofa for a few days to agreeing to a flatshare and having his new landlady assume he was moving in for romantic reasons—which was completely ludicrous, and he had no idea where she’d come up with the thought. They were friends, that was all. And now, flatmates as well.

He was feeling particularly needy now, and he didn’t like it. Not only had Sherlock given him a place to live, but he’d also, somehow cured John of his limp. Well, “cure” wasn’t exactly accurate. Sherlock had mentioned that his limp was psychosomatic before, but even though John knew that as well, it wasn’t like he could just tell his leg to stop hurting. Except that when he was around Sherlock, especially when they were talking about tattoos, he found it easier to ignore. And over the last few months, it had begun hurting less for longer periods. He’d find himself standing straight, cane propped uselessly against his leg. Or he’d get up from sitting, forget to grab his cane, and make it halfway across the room before his leg began twinging again. But this was the first time it had lasted. John had been so distracted by their discussion a few days earlier that he’d just left, cane completely forgotten. He hadn’t even realized it until he was halfway back to Mary’s, and at that point all he could do was laugh and keep walking.

He wondered how much of it had to do with his decision to finally end things with Mary. They’d both been miserable for a while and just ignoring it. He thought back to his and Mary’s last fight, the night before. Their issues had been on his mind … well, since he’d met Sherlock, to be honest. At first, that was because Sherlock mentioned that it wasn’t a viable relationship, but it only took a second visit for John to be intrigued with the man himself, though he’d continued to fight the attraction for weeks after that.

Given Harry’s difficulties being out, he’d been eager to avoid that himself, so he’d kept any same-sex attraction buried deep. And it wasn’t like women didn’t interest him, physically at least. They were soft, smelled lovely, had laughs that made him smile. But he’d never been able to really connect with any woman he’d been with. Mary had come the closest, but then again, he’d been about to deploy when they met, so theirs had been a whirlwind courtship, held together through emails and hurried phone calls shoved between their busy schedules. And she’d seemed so vivacious, smart, funny, and interested in his military life.

But as soon as he’d been invalided out, the interest had dropped, and the fixing and criticisms had started. “Get a job at A&E, it’ll be fun.” “Why do you never leave the house?” “Ooooh, tattoos are so sexy. You should get one.” “Are you sure you can’t go back into the army?”

Having never had a relationship last longer than a month, he’d thought this was normal. They were feeling each other out, trying to learn about each other. Then he’d met Sherlock. And though they weren’t in a romantic relationship, he couldn’t help comparing his girlfriend against his new friend. The man never demanded John be something. He _asked_ what he was, wondered what defined him. Beyond that, he was genuinely interesting to listen to and easy to talk to. Each time John walked into the shop, Sherlock spoke as if they were in the middle of a conversation. It was disconcerting and sometimes hard to follow, but it made it feel like they were in their own little bubble together. It made John feel _special_.

Even though there were times when Sherlock talked like John should understand something, where with Mary it chafed, with Sherlock it felt like … like John could be that. It was as if Sherlock knew who John could be and pushed him to become that person. Whereas Mary pushed John to be who _she_ wanted him to be.

And that had been the final straw. She’d asked for a fourth time why he couldn’t go back into the army. Sherlock understood what drove John to join in the first place, and he understood why he couldn’t go back, even with his arm in better shape (and now his limp as well). With Mary’s exasperated question had come a knock-down, drag-out fight, followed by John packing his suitcases, a night spent on the sofa, and his appearance at The Science of Tattoos the next morning. Twelve hours after he’d lost a girlfriend, he’d gained a flatmate, and felt twelve times better for it.

It took only a short afternoon to return to Mary’s flat and gather his remaining things and officially move into Baker Street. His new flat—next door to the shop and just above Mrs. Hudson’s flat—was messy but comfortable. The wild wallpaper fit perfectly with the inhabitants, and the black and white design in the sitting room matched that in the shop, which John found comforting, having spent so many hours there already. The chemistry equipment in the kitchen was surprising, though it shouldn’t have been, knowing that Sherlock was a graduate chemist who still liked to experiment on lotions and inks for tattooing. John felt comfortable in the space immediately, despite never having been there before. Even the skull on the mantle seemed comforting and homey.

He settled into a worn red chair with a cup of tea, courtesy of Mrs. Hudson—“Just this once, dear, I’m not your housekeeper”—and a filled sketchbook he’d found on the bookshelf, while Sherlock remained in the shop with a client. Dates on the pages let John know it was from four years back. It was interesting to see the progression from then to now; Sherlock’s art had clearly evolved since he’d started. This early stuff was frantic, bold. Brilliant and beautiful but lacking the steady focus that his newer stuff had. Something must have happened to Sherlock about three-quarters through the book, though, because the images evened out after that, moving more to Sherlock’s current style. The last sketch especially held John’s attention.

Like much of Sherlock’s work, it was abstract. Given the shape, he thought it was meant to be a back piece. There were flames, and hints at perhaps a bird. But where, in the hands of the earlier Sherlock, the piece could have been chaotic and destructive, this piece seemed hopeful, like a renewal. It put in John’s mind the phoenix, reborn from flames. Whoever had ended up with the art would have quite the conversation starter on their hands, or rather, their back.

It got him thinking again of possibilities for his own piece, still not even a gleam in Sherlock’s critical eye. He liked the idea of renewal, given the crossroads his own life was at—still no job, girlfriend gone, but with a new flat and a new friend at least. Sherlock claimed he couldn’t come up with anything because of John’s own indecision, but now that he’d left Mary … maybe that would change.

Hearing Sherlock’s footsteps on the stairs raised John’s spirits further. Where he’d come to dread going back to the flat when it was Mary waiting for him, he was eager to talk to Sherlock about his day, to learn what had excited or upset him.

Sherlock burst into the room, already complaining about his client who, as a repeat customer, was allowed more freedom in designing their tattoo, which had gone in a direction Sherlock was not happy with. He stopped his rant when his eyes landed on John’s lap, which still held the sketchbook he’d been perusing.

“Where did you get that?” Sherlock asked, eyes narrowed and hands clenched.

“The bookshelf,” John said, confused at his now-agitated demeanor. “Just getting ideas. I’ve looked through all your stuff down in the shop. Thought I’d see what else you had.”

Sherlock snatched the book from John’s loose hands, holding it to his chest protectively. “My sketchbooks are off limits.”

“But you let me look at your sketches all the time.”

“My design ideas are one thing, but these are private.” He spun with a huff toward the bookshelves.

John frowned. “Okay. Sorry. I didn’t know.”

Sherlock didn’t turn from placing the book back in its spot. His voice was low. “It’s– it’s fine. You’ve seen other sketches, so couldn’t have known these would be any different. Just don’t … anymore. Please. Stay out of the sketchbooks up here.”

“Alright.”

He finally turned around. He looked smaller than John had ever seen him before, more insecure, younger. He rubbed at his arms absently, raising the rolled sleeves just enough to see the ends of his tattoos. John liked that an observer only got hints of Sherlock’s own art peeking out of the ends of his clothes. To Sherlock, tattoos had meaning, relevance. They could be beautiful art pieces meant for conversation, if that’s what the wearer wanted, but to some—to Sherlock—they were something more personal, private, meant to be shared with only a few. John had seen the arm pieces—his earliest tattoos, more artsy than personal—but nothing else, though apparently Sherlock was fairly covered with them at this point. Maybe someday he'd be worthy of seeing more, but not yet.

“Dinner?” Sherlock asked, still visibly upset but calming down.

John smiled softly, hoping to calm his friend further. “Starving. Let’s go out?”

Sherlock cocked his head in question.

“Celebration, I guess.” John rubbed the back of his neck and cleared his throat. He wasn’t going to think about what he wished it could be for. “To me moving in.”

“Ah. Yes. That’s agreeable.” Sherlock produced a wavery smile. John smiled back.

***

They settled into their new flatmateship quickly, having already had time to get used to each other’s quirks over the past few months. Still, there was something tentative in what they had now. Something hesitant, but perhaps hopeful. Hopeful on John’s part anyway. He could only rarely discern Sherlock’s own thoughts and feelings, so he was probably just projecting any hope he thought was coming from his friend.

He wasn’t even sure why he was hopeful. Sherlock had shown no romantic interest in John, or anyone for that matter, and had actually ranted on the ridiculousness of romance and relationships. John wasn’t even sure in which gender his interests lay, if he had any at all. His only interest in people seemed to be as a canvas for his own creativity. There had been a brief … _something_ with a newer artist in town called Irene that had worried John for a while, but after some circling, they had backed off each other, and Sherlock never mentioned her again, much to John’s relief. To this day, he wasn’t sure what that _something_ had been. But still, there had been _something_.

Eventually, he decided his own hopefulness simply came from the freedom of admitting to himself that his own interest went beyond that of only women. He didn’t tell anyone, he wasn’t quite ready for that, but he knew it for himself, and he felt a little more comfortable knowing it.

Sherlock had even begun to draw up ideas for a tattoo, based on ideas John had got from Sherlock’s private sketchbook. Verboten though it was, he couldn’t unsee what he’d already seen, and he’d not been able to get that last, fiery sketch out of his mind. Sherlock had shot down the fire, but when John had mentioned its relation to renewal and rebirth, he’d latched onto water, another element with similar leanings. There had been something muttered about John’s stubborn nature, his lasting patience, and something about stormy eyes. John hadn’t been allowed to see anything yet, but the fact that Sherlock finally had an idea was a start.

Along with a new view of his sexuality and a tattoo in the works, he finally found satisfying work, in art of all things. Well, more of hobby so far, but he had hopes for more. He’d been decent at art back in school, especially drawing medical-based pictures at uni, but he’d never thought about making something out of it. Now with plenty of free time and spending so much time in the shop, he’d started sketching and found he really liked the creativity, despite it not being anything like medicine or war. Or perhaps because of that. He was finding contentment in something that was nothing like his old life.

Between art and Sherlock, he was happy. So what was wrong with feeling hopeful, even if it wasn’t for the reason he wanted deep down?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Memorial Weekend here in the States, so it looks like I might get out another chapter or two today, depending on how editing goes. :)


	4. Let Me Trace the Lines on Your Tattooed Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock realizes how bittersweet it is to live with John while creating his tattoo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [“Tattooed Heart”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DMn7nVPVU8k) by Ariana Grande. 
> 
> _You don't need to worry about making me crazy_   
>  _'Cause I'm way past that_   
>  _Eh, and so just call me, if you want me_   
>  _'Cause you got me, and I'll show you, how much I wanna be_   
>  _On your tattooed heart_
> 
> Yup, that’s Sherlock in this chapter …

How could being around John more often be simultaneously so amazing and so terrible? Sherlock loved seeing his face first thing in the morning over coffee and toast, loved being able to talk out his ideas with him, loved having him around as they wound down at the end of the day. But, God, was it torture seeing his face first thing in the morning and not be able to caress it. Torture not being able to share his deepest feelings. Torture watching him go up the stairs to another bed at the end of a day.

Further torture was watching John come to accept his sexual orientation, see him start eyeing men, and knowing John still didn’t want him. Worse still because the men John’s eyes lingered on were similar in build and color to Sherlock himself, which meant, given that John had never given _him_ a second glance, that he had no interest specifically in Sherlock as a romantic partner. He wasn’t sure if it was because they had met while John still considered himself straight that his friend never looked at him in that way, or if there was something about his personality itself that turned John off from seeing him romantically.

He wasn’t sure how much more he could take of the sweet torture of living with John. He hadn’t thought things through when he’d offered the spare room. His only thought had been that John was unhappy and homeless, and that he could help. Which was exactly why he usually gave so much thought to his every move, why he didn’t do sentiment. Mycroft was right, it made him weak. But now that he was so far into it, he couldn’t stop. He was caught in the wave that was John.

And wasn’t that an image. Now that he’d suggested it, he couldn’t unsee John in conjunction with water. Beyond his storm-dark eyes, John _was_ water. He could come up sudden as storm, angry and vicious. But he could also be slow and soft, like a summer shower. He had the patience and stubbornness to slowly wear away at even the hardest rock—whether it be a person or obstacle. His nourishing presence in Sherlock’s life had led to new growth of his art, and he nurtured Mrs. Hudson, making her bright and shiny again.

Still, he had a hard time settling on the perfect art to showcase those many facets of John Watson. Sometimes he thought even a full-body tattoo wouldn’t be enough to convey all of it. And that wasn’t even taking into account that real estate was prime on John’s smaller but sturdy frame.

But at least he had an idea to work with now. Beyond John’s own ideas—which so mirrored Sherlock’s own fiery tattoo that he had to have seen that last image in the sketchbook the day he’d moved in—John himself was coalescing into who he was meant to be, and it was amazing having a front-row seat to that. John had been beautiful from the start, but to see him finally begin to be comfortable in his own skin was better than anything Sherlock had ever experienced. And he’d somehow played a part in that. And he wanted that to continue, more intimately if possible, longshot though the idea was.

He remembered noting when they’d first met that John was a serial dater, and he didn’t think his friend understanding himself better would change that. John was so entrenched in contemporary society that he only saw his self-worth as entwined with having a romantic partner. And, God help him, now that he’d met John, Sherlock was beginning to think the same about himself. Not in general. No, he still chafed at the idea of needing another person in his life to feel happy and more like himself. But if that person was John, all his beliefs went out the window. He loved the challenge in John’s eyes, his curiosity of everything about Sherlock, the way he made Sherlock want to be the best version of himself.

So why couldn’t John feel the same for him? He appeared happy living with Sherlock, fights over messy experiments in the kitchen not withstanding. He obviously enjoyed Sherlock’s company and seemed to be blossoming during the months they’d known each other. So why did his gaze stray to men who weren’t Sherlock? What was it about him that wasn’t worthy of John’s interest and love?

He poured all his feelings into creating the perfect tattoo. If the only way he could stay forever at John’s side was through a tattoo permanently inked on his skin, that’s what he’d do. He’d make it so that John knew, wherever he was, that he was remembered. That he was … loved.

Throughout this inner turmoil, he presented his normal front to John. They went out for Chinese, laughed over stupid movies on the sofa, and solved a few cases from the Met. There was the thing with The Woman, but the less thought about that the better, even though she’d been the one to ink a certain chemical structure over his heart, once she’d learned the truth of his feelings for John. It had been the price for her silence. The location had been a bit too on-the-nose, but it was one of the few places still clear on his skin—that he could easily see and others couldn’t, at least. And he _had_ wanted to see it. He still wasn’t sure if it was a reminder that caring wasn’t an advantage (shut up, Mycroft) or just that John was now as indelible in his life as the ink was on his skin. Though soon enough that presence may be only in his mind, when John inevitably found someone to love.

A year after they met, Sherlock finished sketching out John’s tattoo. There was storm and there was calm, waves and rain, but it was all water, all John. Needing to get a large idea into one piece, he chose to place it on John’s back. At least, that’s what he kept trying to convince himself. Never mind the fact that it mirrored his own. And never mind that a large piece would take time to execute, meaning more time with John.

John loved the idea when he finally saw the sketch but was hesitant of the placement. It took a few weeks for him to show Sherlock why—the bullet that had sent him back to London (and to Sherlock) had caused significant damage because of an infection, though the bulk of that was at the exit wound located at the front of the shoulder. In the end, Sherlock—with Mrs. Hudson’s help, he suspected—was able to convince him it would work, and that the art would actually help disguise the scarring.

And so the actual tattooing began, bit by painful bit, though John seemed better able to handle the pain than many men Sherlock had worked on. But it was more than John’s physical pain involved. Sherlock was pouring everything he was into this tattoo, willing every ounce of perfection and creativity he had into process, every ounce of his love and affection into the ink. It hurt. But it was worth it. For John.

***

“Mmm. Not as bad of pain as I expected.”

“Well, you were shot in the shoulder. Probably puts things into perspective. Plus, we’ve only just started. Talk to me again in four hours.”

“Four … right, yeah.”

Sherlock smirked at John’s still mostly pristine back. This first session was about starting the outlining, getting the big picture in place. Though given how large the tattoo was, even that would take a few sessions, depending on how long John lasted per sitting. This would not be a quick process, something he was grateful for. It meant more time to try and show John who he really was, how good they could be together.

“It’s not just new mothers who forget pain, you know.”

“Hmm?”

John started an aborted shrug, apparently remembering he couldn’t move just in time. “Women say they forget the pain of childbirth, with the consensus being that hormones like dopamine help them forget. I’m sure it’s true, but all humans forget pain. Adrenaline makes memory fuzzy. I suppose we wouldn’t have survived long as a species if we were too afraid to do something a second time after getting hurt the first time.”

“Oh?”

“I can stop talking if you prefer.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Your answers are trending toward monosyllabic—oh that bit hurts more—thought maybe you’d prefer I shut up.”

_I’m monosyllabic for fear of blurting out something I shouldn’t_ , Sherlock forced himself not to say. He tended to blather when he was concentrating on something, saying whatever happened to be at the top of his brain. And working on John, inking a tattoo he had poured months of time and emotion into, meant that everything on his brain right now was about John and his feelings for him.

“I’ll tell you to shut up if I dislike listening. You know that.”

“Mmmm. Don’t I. ‘Could you stop breathing, John, you’re ruining my concentration.’” John’s voice went deeper in a poor attempt at mimicking him. It made him smile fondly nonetheless.

“I was in the middle of a delicate experiment. I could have blown up the kitchen if I’d done it wrong.”

“Next time, just warn me. Then I’ll wrestle the chemicals away from you to keep us both alive and unscathed.”

“What were you saying about pain?”

“Oi, changing the subject.” John sighed. “Fine. I reckon my point was that yeah, I got shot and should have a high pain tolerance, but that was over a year ago, and I’ve forgotten exactly what the pain felt like, only that I didn’t like it.”

“You’re saying tattooing hurts,” Sherlock teased. He liked John like this.

“ _No_. I’m just saying that your earlier statement was wrong. Perhaps I have a higher pain tolerance than some, but that’s a general thing, not something related to a one-time pain from eighteen months ago. And this _isn’t_ painful. Merely … uncomfortable.”

“Hmm. What do you want for dinner tonight?”

John twitched. Surprise at the non-sequitur. “What?”

Sherlock prodded him in the side to stop the movement. “The adrenaline from the … _discomfort_ speeds up your metabolism. You’ll be particularly hungry this evening and also not wanting to leave the flat. I’m wondering what I should order in after we’re done.”

“Ah, right. Hmmm, I think … pizza.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Pizza?”

“Do not give me that tone, Sherlock Holmes. I’m the one in pain here.”

“I thought it was just _uncomfortable_.”

“Shut it, you prick. You’re buying me a pizza after this. I deserve some pampering after letting you torture me.”

“You’re paying me for the torture.”

“Well then, just try being a mate for half an hour and help a bloke out. I’ll pamper you after your next tattoo, promise.”

Sherlock’s feelings warred at the words. He felt happy that John seemed to think their cohabitation would last long enough for Sherlock to get another tattoo, knowing he had little space left for new ink and thus would take his time filling those last few areas. But his stomach churned at the thought that it might be an empty promise. He mentally shook himself. He needed to stop waiting for John to leave. It would happen, eventually, but until then, he should just enjoy what he had.

“Right then. Pizza it is, John.”

He went back to tattooing his heart on John’s back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh pobrecito :'(


	5. Crier Tout Bas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wonders about Sherlock's feelings, Harry accidentally lets a secret out, and John and Sherlock finally start talking to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter’s song is [”Crier Tout Bas”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lEVqmcdA54Y). It’s mostly the [English translation](https://lyricstranslate.com/en/crier-tout-bas-scream-softly.html-0#songtranslation) of the beginning that really makes me think of this story:
> 
> _I have seen you drawing a line through the landscape_   
>  _A line of loved ones who destroy your language_   
>  _And when you were singing louder in your silence_   
>  _I was seeing tears run always flowing the wrong way_
> 
> I keep seeing “drawing a line through the landscape” as Sherlock doing his sketches. And then there’s the name of the song: “Crier Tout Bas,” meaning “Scream Softly,” which sounds so much like what these boys are doing, trying to speak their love without actually saying it. And then I watched the music video and it was all water-based (like John’s tattoo!), and I just had to use the song.

As John watched the tattoo progress with each session, he let a little more hope rise to the surface. It was the most beautiful and amazing thing he’d ever seen, and Sherlock had created it just for him. Sherlock was undoubtedly the best tattoo artist in the city and capable of creating great beauty and brilliance. Still, this was beyond anything else he’d drawn before.

The only thing that came close was the tattoo he’d designed and inked for Mrs. Hudson to cover the scars left by her husband’s abuse, from that final attack that had almost cost her her life. That tattoo was what brought her into Sherlock’s orbit, and much like John’s growing ink, it had taken more time than normal to design. John saw the love and care in that piece, which he’d only been privileged to see when he had balked at having Sherlock’s gorgeous art in the same area as the ugliness that war had scarred him with. When Mrs. Hudson had learned of John’s reticence, she’d shown him her own scars, which Sherlock had worked into the tattoo design beautifully.

Seeing that love and care had reassured John more than the design itself, creative and lovely as it was. And so he’d shown Sherlock his own scar, and his friend had assured him it wouldn’t affect the beauty of the tattoo at all.

As the tattoo grew, John could feel the rightness of the design. He could see how well Sherlock saw him—both who he wanted to be and who he’d been. He was yet again amazed at his friend’s perspicacity and creativity. But as it grew, John couldn’t help feeling that Sherlock was trying to say something more. His optimistic side said that it was love, but his gut said that it was goodbye. Though why he would be saying goodbye, John couldn’t figure out. They were flatmates and friends. Unless Sherlock planned on packing up and leaving London after he was done with the tattoo, there would be no need for goodbye. John certainly wasn’t leaving. He was happy where he was. He had friends that made him laugh, he enjoyed his newfound interest in art and tattoos, and he got to come home to an amazing man at the end of every day. What more could he ask for?

He was even talking to Harry again. And it was Harry who, inadvertently, caused the event that led to John finally hearing what Sherlock was saying with the tattoo.

He’d finally come out to Harry and had asked her to keep that to herself until he could work up the courage to tell others. But even sober, she had issues with her mouth running away from her. They met up for lunch a few weeks after John’s pronouncement, and Sherlock had tagged along after a client had canceled their appointment.

It went surprisingly well, given what strong personalities both Harry and Sherlock had, and given how both were, for whatever reason, fiercely protective of John. They made it through the meal with no blow-ups, fights, or drowning emotions in alcohol, so John considered it a win. Then he made the mistake of looking just a little too long at a man walking past their table who looked just a little bit like Sherlock. Unable to look at the actual object of his affections, John tried to satiate himself with covert glances at men with a passing resemblance to Sherlock.

Harry, apparently on the lookout now that John had told her he was bisexual, noticed John’s (very brief, really) glance and ribbed him for it, forgetting it was meant to be a secret still or perhaps thinking he’d at least told his best friend by then.

“Awww, baby brother. You go for the tall, dark, and handsome, huh? Classic.” She covered her mouth with her hand when she saw John freeze. “Oops?” Then she glanced at Sherlock, who had also stilled at her words. “Surprise …” she added, guiltily.

Sherlock stared at her briefly, then drank the last of his water, saying nothing. He remained quiet during the awkward end of the lunch and the taxi ride back home, and John, not knowing what to say, also kept silent as he went over the ways their inevitable conversation would go.

Though he’d dragged his feet at telling Sherlock to begin with, it wasn’t out of fear for what Sherlock would think of him. Sherlock obviously didn’t care a whit for sexual preference and had never even been bothered when the two of them were (far too often) mistaken for a couple. But even with that, and given how much Sherlock already knew about John, actually saying the words felt like baring his soul to his friend. And if that happened, he’d inevitably see John’s feelings for him, and that’s what would change everything. No one wanted to live with a friend who pined after them, least of all someone like Sherlock, who walled himself off from feelings and relationships.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, following Sherlock into the shop after they got out of the cab. “I wanted to tell you, but didn’t know ho–”

“Really, John,” Sherlock shot back, finally breaking his silence. “You’ve lived with the most observant man in London for a year, and you think you’ve kept your sexuality from me? Don’t. Be. Boring.” He threw himself onto his stool at the counter.

John, who had set about making tea to calm himself, paused in his movements and whirled to glare at Sherlock. “Oh, I’m sooo sorry that my discovery of who I am _bores_ you. I guess now that you got enough dirt on me to create my tattoo, everything about me is dull.” He knew he was lashing out at his friend out of self-consciousness, but he couldn’t stop his mouth. Not so different from Harry, was he?

Instead of striking back, as expected, as always happened when they fought, Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed silently, reminding John of a fish he’d caught one summer when he was a kid. He almost laughed at the visual comparison but managed to tamp down the hysteria. Sherlock’s next words took the rest of the mania out of him.

“So you’re just like everyone else, thinking I’m a machine.” His voice was quiet, his face slack with sad acceptance before trying for a trembling smile. “Good to know I hid myself so well, even from my only friend.”

John’s heart stopped. “God, no. Sherlock, no. I didn’t mean–” He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to backtrack without revealing too much more of himself. “I just …”

“No, you did mean it. And I should be relieved that I did such a good job.” Sherlock’s voice grew more impassioned. “Despite how much it hurt, I was able to keep my feelings hidden every _single_ time you drooled over a man who wasn’t me. More than that! Every man who shared my physical characteristics, which drove home how uninterested you must be in _me_ that every other tall, dark-haired man could turn your head so easily.”

It got harder for John to breathe the longer Sherlock talked. Was he saying what it sounded like he was saying? For every moment that John had spent pining over him, had he been pining in return? Had they been hiding longing looks from each other for a year?

“Well, shit.” His expletive stopped Sherlock’s own rant, which had apparently continued while John had a think. “God, we’re such fucking idiots.” He ran his hands over his face. His self-deprecating laugh had Sherlock looking at him warily.

“John?”

He could say so many things, go into long explanations of his internal turmoil over the last year. But in the end, John Watson was a simple man, and so he gave a simple answer, along with a hopeful smile.

“I’m in love with you. And I think, if I’m hearing you right, that you might feel the same.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter!!! Chapter 6 is going up directly after this one, so keep reading.


	6. I Wrote Every Line for You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John talk even more, and Sherlock finally shares his most intimate tattoo with John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, last song. Sadness! Less sad, though, is that I had to go with the gorgeous [“Build Me Up from Bones”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X09s37tJ09s) by Sarah Jarosz, which is a song I adore and try to use at every possible occasion. It seemed a good fit for the quiet of this last chapter.
> 
> CW: There is some talk of Sherlock’s past drug use and John’s depression, but it’s pretty vague, dealing more with their recoveries than the dark stuff that came before that.

Sherlock paused, then rewound John’s last statement. He studied his face, measuring his words against his expression. He’d always thought John wore his heart on his sleeve and his thoughts on his face, but if what John was saying was true, he’d been hiding enormous feelings too deeply for Sherlock to have seen them. What to believe? His own keen observational skills—ones that hadn’t failed since he’d got clean almost five years before—or the unbelievable but oh-so-sweet words of his friend?

His body betrayed him, only letting a small “John?” spill out of his mouth, when he had wanted scathing words to spew out, to protect him and keep him sane. Romantic entanglement was– but it was _John_ , saying the words he most longed– but loving made him weak and– but **_John_** …

He was saved from spiraling deep into his mind when John took a few steps forward and raised a hand. He felt the solid warmth of John as his hand cupped Sherlock’s face, thumb caressing cheekbone. He only felt the moisture as John wiped it away. He couldn’t be crying. He hadn’t cried in years. He was better than that, stronger.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John breathed out as more tears fell and Sherlock pushed his head further into John’s hand, trying to draw strength from him. His hand slid down Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, and his other arm wrapped around Sherlock until they were pulled close in a tight hug. How long had it been since Sherlock had been hugged? Mrs. Hudson would pat him and kiss his cheek, and it was lovely in that mothering way he pretended to hate, but there was something comforting and grounding about a solid hug. He’d forgotten about that. He could smell John’s hair—a combination of shampoo and natural body oils—the spicy scent of his aftershave, and the lavender smell of the lotion Sherlock had concocted to put on tattoos while they healed. He wanted to wrap himself in the smell forever and let it protect him from the rest of the world.

If this was what requited love felt like, perhaps it wasn’t such a weakness after all. Perhaps it could make him stronger. John already made him better, just by being his friend. What more could happen if they promised more to each other—partnership, support, acceptance?

“You … do … ?” was all he could get out, hoping John understood, given the too-long gap since John had spoken.

“Yeah, Sherlock. I do.” He tightened his arms around Sherlock. “And you … ?”

Unable to speak quite yet, he settled for a vigorous nod into John’s shoulder.

John huffed into Sherlock’s neck. “Okay. Good.”

He wasn’t sure if his tears were of relief or happiness. It felt like all the energy and emotions that had gone into making John’s tattoo were now pouring out of his eyes. It felt _good_. Releasing. Cleansing. They stood there, silently embracing, for several minutes. It wasn’t awkward, and neither felt the need to move away or speak, which helped Sherlock believe that John meant what he said. He wasn’t getting impatient or annoyed. He was holding Sherlock close, letting him process and adjust. It was very John, and therefore perfect. How could someone so ordinary be so perfect? Not perfect, full stop. Perfect for _Sherlock_. Someone who understood his foibles and loved him— _loved him_ —all the same.

Sherlock finally pulled back just enough to look in John’s face for one last sign. He wore a soft smile, the one he used when he liked something Sherlock did—whether that be a sketch, a finished tattoo, or a deduction.

“Okay?” he asked softly, hands moving back to Sherlock’s face.

“Yeah,” Sherlock tried to say, but it came out as a mere breath, so he nodded.

“I love you, Sherlock,” he said again, as if he knew Sherlock needed to hear it, now that he believed it might be true.

He wanted to say it back—so much—but couldn’t find his voice yet, so he let his body take over. He moved his own hands to mirror John’s and pulled him in for a kiss. He wasn’t particularly experienced with them, but he knew John would help him out.

And after a surprised breath, he did.

***

“It’s the one from your private sketchbook. The one at the end.” John’s words were soft. They were lying on Sherlock’s— _their_ —bed a few weeks after they’d shared their feelings with each other.

They’d taken things slowly since that first declaration and kiss, and only now had Sherlock felt comfortable enough to show John his back—or more accurately, his soul. The tattoo had been the result of a year of sobriety—first filled with self-hatred, then growing to acceptance, then moving to renewal—and all the emotional work that entailed. It was his declaration that he wouldn’t let his body rule him again. His mind and his art were worth more than any substance that could only briefly make him feel on top of the world.

But that wasn’t precisely true anymore. He still didn’t let his body rule him, per se, but he let his emotions out, let them flow through him and into John. Sometimes it was as simple as a hand on a back as they passed one another in the flat. Sometimes it was a kiss, noses nuzzling softly. And now, it was also the heated passion that came from the love they felt for each other.

And given their new physical intimacy, Sherlock finally felt ready to show John the tattoo that meant the most to him. He turned over on the bed they now shared and bared his back to John. John propped himself up with an arm, his face serious, as if he understood why Sherlock so rarely showed his tattoos to the world. He softly traced the outlines with a finger.

“Fire. Pain. Anger …” His finger skimmed across the tattoo. “Passion. Hope. Renewal. The initial sketch was gorgeous, amazing, but this …” John breathed. “I thought only Mrs. Hudson’s tattoo compared to my own, but this …”

“It was … intensely personal. A promise to myself, not to let–” Even though he knew John knew about his past, it was still hard to say it out loud. John saw him as this amazing, brilliant, strong person, and he hated to remind him of what he really was. Broken.

“And you haven’t,” John answered back fiercely. “You’ve done so well. Moving on, getting better, being strong. I can’t even imagine–”

“Of course you can,” Sherlock cut in, just as fiercely. He turned his head to see John better. “You went to war. You came back full of pain—and I don’t mean just the physical pain—and then you moved on. You got better, stronger.”

John grimaced. “I wasn’t doing so well when we met. But you … you gave me a challenge, something to focus on besides myself. I don’t know what would have happened if we hadn’t met.”

Sherlock looked at his beloved face, bathed in light from the lamp he’d turned on so John could see the ink. “You would have found another way. You don’t give up, John Watson. You had a setback. We all have those. You would have found help, one way or another. I know you would have.”

John gave a lopsided smile and went back to studying the tattoo. “Maybe.”

Sherlock let his head fall onto his crossed arms as the caress of John’s fingers lulled him to quiet. John’s touch was like a tattoo needle. Not the biting, adrenaline-inducing part, but the part that let him zone out and get away from his spinning brain. Both the needle and John’s touch just let him be. It was a relief after a long day dealing with his thoughts.

“Are they similar on purpose?”

“Hmm?” His thoughts were a gentle buzz at the back of his mind. He might be able to fall asleep soon.

“Our tattoos—yours is fire and mine is water, but they still seem sort of the same.”

Sherlock shrugged. “You’re the one who saw my sketch and wanted it for yourself. I just gave you what you wanted.”

“So …”

Something in John’s voice made him lift his head and prop it on a hand. “So?” He asked softly.

“So, your own feelings didn’t play a part in creating it …”

“Oh, John.” Sherlock reached out his other hand and rested it on John’s cheek. “The only thing I’ve poured more feelings into than your tattoo is my own. I was so afraid you’d fall in love again and leave me. I wanted to leave some small part of myself with you, for you to hopefully remember me fondly by.”

John smiled and leaned in to leave a soft kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “I did fall in love. And I do think of you fondly. And this bloody tattoo is going to cover practically all of my back, so it’s not exactly some _small_ part of you.”

Sherlock shrugged and looked away, self-conscious and pleased all at once. “It really was your idea, and it’s you that’s represented in it. My creativity and ink _are_ a small part, comparatively.”

“If you say so.” John went back to tracing the lines. “It’s gorgeous. Both of them are. And Mrs. Hudson’s. Your art is amazing, always, but when you let your feelings show … you’re incandescent.”

Laying his head back on his arms, Sherlock smiled. “You’re luminous, in your own way. A torch, lighting the way for others. For me. I can’t decide which would be better. Letting you develop your own tattoo skills to become an artist in your own right, or wanting you to work as my assistant so I can continue to improve my own art.”

John’s caress changed into a gentle shove. “ _Letting_ me, huh? You think you have a say in the matter.” His tone was teasing, letting Sherlock know he hadn’t messed up the compliment too badly. It was a work in progress. _They_ were a work in progress. It was good.

“This is true. You are quite stubborn.” The silence lasted long enough after Sherlock’s pronouncement for him to open his eyes again and look at John. “You _are_ stubborn, you know.”

“No, yeah. I know,” John finally replied, then bit his lip. “You think I could?”

“Could _what_ , John? Despite what you think, I can’t read minds.” He actually did know what John meant, but he needed him to say it.

John picked at a stray thread on the sheet near his hand, bowed face hidden from Sherlock’s gaze. “Be a– do tattoos? Create something people would want on their bodies forever?”

He hadn’t shared out loud his dream of stepping into the tattoo world, but Sherlock had read it in his actions. He increasingly sat in on Sherlock’s sessions and had been sketching regularly for months now. He asked questions, and he showed a level of interest for it that he hadn’t shown for anything since they had first met. It was nice, having another thing to share and connect them. And as for John’s (ridiculous) question …

“John, you not only invaded Afghanistan, but you survived and came home after, started a new life completely unlike your old one, and took a chance on me. You can do anything.”

John lifted his head. “You really mean that?”

Sherlock leveled a stare at John. “Do I lie?”

“Not even to save someone’s feelings,” John said with a chuckle.

“Then believe me when I say, as both an accomplished tattoo artist and your partner, I believe in you, John Watson. And …” Sherlock took a deep but slightly shaky breath, “I love you and will support you doing this, if it’s what you really want.” John had said it several times, but though he knew that John knew he reciprocated those feelings, this was his first time actually saying it out loud. He was glad he’d waited until this moment, it felt right.

John’s face softened, and a small smile played at his lips. “Good, because I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read all the way to the end, thank you! I hope you enjoyed it. I’ve been wanting to write a tattoo!lock fic for ages now, given my love of tattoos and my own recent [ ink addition](https://vateacancameos.tumblr.com/post/182857208502/my-steampunk-biomech-tattoo-is-done-love-it-so), which I’m afraid has way less meaning than John’s eventual tattoo does. I just like the way it looks! But it did take me a year to decide and execute it, so John and I have that in common.
> 
> And thank you for your patience with my lack of description on the tattoos for John and Sherlock. I’m not visually creative at all and felt I would fail if I explained the tattoos too much. Plus, this leaves more room for you to imagine them as you wish. And hey, if you’re an artist and get an idea from this, draw away and please share! 
> 
> If you're invested in this AU, I've made this a series and am currently working on two smaller pieces--one of John's journey into tattooing and one of Mrs. Hudson's backstory. So subscribe to the series or follow me on Tumblr to be alerted when those come out.
> 
> Thanks and have a great day!

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on Tumbler [@vateacancameos](http://vateacancameos.tumblr.com/) or on Twitter at [@aerynmoon0](https://twitter.com/aerynmoon0)


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